


and every year,

by badbavarois



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Compliant, M/M, Minor Injuries, Ned's POV, Romantic Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers, slight mention of miles morales also known as my son, they don't know each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 17:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbavarois/pseuds/badbavarois
Summary: it's never enough; he's always too far away





	and every year,

**Author's Note:**

> ty rosywiki for editing (ray did the last one but i forgot to mention her bc i'm terrible)  
> i have another fic idea (tsoa) but it's a lot of research and i haven't been writing on my computer and i have another fic to finish (yoi shit bang) and requests to fill but we'll see

 

The first time he feels his soulmate, really, _truly,_ feels his soulmate, it’s like his heart has been ripped from his chest and replaced by nails.

 

It hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, more than the time he thought he was going to drown in his cousin's pool, when water had filled his lungs until he passed out. He’s still crying when his mother finds him a few hours later once she’s off of work, tears fogging his vision, choking on dry heaves.

 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, frantic, cradling his head and pressing damp washcloths to cool his burning forehead.

 

“I don’t know,” he manages to get out, but the words are lead on his tongue, near impossible to talk around. “It just hurts.”

 

That night, when the moon shines through the apartment windows, he listens to his parents toss around words like _soulmate_ and _loss_ and _do you think he’ll be okay?_

 

He counts the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and prays his soulmate is still out there.

 

Ned Leeds is eight years old.

 

…

 

In fourth grade, they decide he’s too smart - _gifted,_ they say, casual, like they aren’t handing down a prison sentence.

 

He’s put in a new classroom with twelve other kids. He doesn’t know any of their names, and none of them bother to try to learn his, either. He does his best to ignore it and excels, consuming every book he can get his hands on.

 

That works for a while - winter in Queens has come and gone before it begins to fail him. Except, he’s nine years old and nine-year-olds are _children,_ and their minds aren’t built to survive loneliness.

 

He’s smarter than the other children in the GT program and everyone knows it and he _hates_ it, their offhanded comments and sidelong glances.

 

It gets worse when months go by at a time with nothing from his soulmate except the occasional burst of pain - growth spurts and paper cuts and little things that mean nothing at all.

 

Ned Leeds is nine years old and he has no one except himself.

 

…

 

He turns ten with little fanfare. His dad bakes a cake, burns the edges and tries to hide it with icing. It’s a bit dry but he smiles, eating it anyway.

 

He feels _happy,_ and blows out his candles to the wish that his soulmate can feel his happiness, too.

 

He wakes up the next morning when he feels it - the warmth, the _love_ \- it’s barely there, just a wisp, but there all the same.

 

He stares up at his stars, watching them dim in the morning glare, and holds it close until it fades away.

 

Ned Leeds is ten years old, and he’s young enough to believe things will always be like this,

 

…

 

He’s eleven and middle school is scary and friends are few and hard to come by, but his classes are a bit harder and he almost feels like he’s being challenged.

 

Things are okay, he’s getting by, has a place to sit at lunch that’s only two empty seats away from the next occupied one during lunch, close enough that the cafeteria monitor doesn’t feel the need to come check on him to make sure he’s adjusting to the new schedule.

 

Or, he is, until he’s walking to fifth-period science after lunch and drops two textbooks in the middle of a crowded hallway during the class change, because not to be dramatic, but this is what death feels like.

 

“I can’t feel any fractures,” the nurse tells him a few minutes later. His arm is bright red and throbbing, numb below the wrist. She sighs and clicks her tongue. “I can’t write you a late slip if there’s nothing wrong.”

 

He wants her to believe him, but she’s not paid enough to care. It’s not in her job description, and he’s not stupid enough to believe she has enough empathy for 1500 kids just starting to hit puberty.

 

 _It’s my soulmate,_ he wants to say, _something’s happened,_ but what does it matter? She won’t believe him. So he doesn’t tell anyone. There’s no need to, when it won’t change anything.

 

He smiles at the teacher when he walks in 20 minutes later, saying, “Sorry, I got held up.”

 

She frowns, but doesn’t say anything. _She_ can see through the lie, his gritted teeth, the way he favors his left arm. She always did seem to care, but then again, she’s never gone out of her way to do anything, either.

 

Ned Leeds is eleven years old and too smart for his own good.

 

…

 

He’s twelve and seventh grade drags by. Things are too easy - he watches the clock tick instead of paying attention, just so his homework will be a second harder.

 

It doesn’t change much, if it changes anything at all.

 

“You’re doing well,” his mom finally intervenes during dinner. It’s just the two of them; his dad is out in Seattle for a business trip for the rest of the week.

 

He picks at his dinner, waiting for her to continue. There are one million things he could be doing - would _rather_ be doing instead.

 

“I’m just - worried you’ll get bored and stop trying.”

 

He doesn’t tell her he hasn’t tried in months, _years,_ really. He could do the work in his sleep. He thinks about the Lego set his dad gave him before leaving for the airport, imagines how the pieces will interlock, assembling it brick by brick in his head.

 

“There’s a school we were looking at, your father and I. it would be challenging and you would have to work a lot harder than you are now.”

 

At that, he perks up, just a bit. He forgets what the last piece he put in was.

 

“You couldn’t go until next year, of course,” she adds, “But it’s something to think about. I think it would be good for you.”

 

Ned Leeds is twelve years old, but he feels like his life hasn’t really begun.

 

…

 

He’s thirteen and puberty is Actually The Worst.

 

His soulmate is gone for the most part, quiet until his knees or elbows sting like he’s smacked them against a table. Every time it happens, his chest always hurts afterward, like his soulmate is trying to shove every last ounce of apology into his heart that they can muster.

 

None of it ever really hurts for long until he feels like something is biting his neck, sharp needles of pain driven into his skin.

 

He drops his pen, the fresh ink on loose leaf paper smearing. _This copy doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself in a feeble attempt to ignore the pain, _It’s just a rough draft of my Midtown Tech application essay._

 

It doesn’t work.

 

Over the next few days, things... _change._

 

Nothing obvious - just small changes. None of them last long - just a few minutes. The bite mark last the longest - two days, before disappearing from both sight and searching fingers.

 

It’s just strange. The sudden stickiness of his wrists, the sudden sharpness of his vision. It never lasts, and he doesn’t bother to tell his parents. There’s no point - none of it hurts him, or, at least not permanently.

 

He thinks back to health class first semester - he doesn’t remember the teacher mentioning these signs of puberty.

 

Ned Leeds is thirteen years old, and he’s beginning to wonder just who his soulmate is.

 

…

 

He’s fourteen when he realizes he’s not as smart as he thought he was.

 

He gets into Midtown Tech easily and expects the rest of the school year to be the same way, until he walks into a sophomore level physical science class and prays for God to take him out.

 

He’s smart enough to handle it, the coursework isn’t _too_ strenuous, but he just doesn’t possess the background knowledge everyone else in the class seems to.

 

It all flies over his head, and that night he stares at the ceiling and counts glow in the dark stars and breathes. He just doesn’t understand, and no amount of googling or Khan Academy can save him.

 

It’s just science - by all accounts and reason, he should be fine. It’s just _science,_ he’s good at that. But, it’s two weeks into the school year and he still has yet to find his bearings and he’s starting to feel like a ship taking on gallons of water miles away from the shore.

 

His soulmate doesn’t make it any easier. Random cuts and bruises keep cropping up, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. The constant loss of breath and searing pain in his ribs is something else entirely. It’s hard to focus on modern European history when he feels like he’s been launched into the side of a building every few hours.

 

By Christmas, he gets the hang of the school year. He joins decathlon, raises his GPA by a few tenths of a point, figures out where to sit in the library and during lunch.

 

By Christmas, his soulmate has broken eighteen different bones, many of them multiple times, by his count. It’s a pain in the ass, even if the pain fades faster than it should.

 

It makes him want to smack his soulmate, whoever it is, or at least give them a stern talking to about things like _safety_ and _not dying_ and _respecting their fucking soulmate’s bodily health._

 

But, considering the fact that the slap would hurt him just as much as it would hurt them, he’s leaning towards the lecture. Besides, he was always better with words.

 

But, as annoying as it was, his heart skips a beat every time, because, _oh God,_ and _what if this time things aren’t okay,_ and _there’s nothing I can do to save them._

 

Ned Leeds is fourteen years old, and he swears he’s the weakest person in the world.

 

…

 

He’s fifteen and sophomore year is better than ninth grade. He’s worked his way up to number six in the class rankings, has gotten fives on every AP test he’s taken. The most popular girl at school, Liz Allen, knows his name and waves and smiles at him in the hallways.

 

But none of that really matters when he wakes up in a cold sweat, every bone in his body screaming.

 

A few hours later, he’s still sore in home room. They’re watching the footage - the Avengers fighting on a landing strip in some tiny European country, destroying a 747 in their rage.

 

“Who the fuck is that?” Flash Thompson asks offhandedly, gesturing with his chin.

 

None of them know the answer. There’s Captain America and Iron Man and that one magic girl and - Ant Man? (He’s not sure; he never cared enough to learn.)

 

But there’s one more, one none of them have seen before. His suit is red and blue, just a blur as he flies across the smart board projection.

 

When the superhero steals Captain America’s shield, he stops breathing and Flash curses loud enough for the teacher to take notice and glare. He wants - _needs_ \- to know who he is.

 

He blinks and suddenly the new - Avenger? He isn’t sure if he actually falls under that category yet, he’s so new - isn’t in the shot anymore. He searches the screen for him and -

 

There he is. The shipping container is dented from the force of the impact. He thinks about waking up breathless, the searing pain, but it doesn’t mean anything.

 

Ned Leeds is fifteen years old, but things could never be normal for him.

 

…

 

He’s sixteen and fuck, Spider Man may be hot but he’s a sixteen-year-old boy. He’s doing his best.

 

(There are sticks on his laptop and his binders, he has a few tee-shirts, but he’s not _obsessed.)_

 

After Vienna, Spider Man became a household name, up there with Hawkeye and the Hulk and Black Widow. In Queens, he was even bigger than Tony Stark and Steve Rogers once everyone realized that was his home turf.

 

His motif was on the support beam of bridges and on the sides of dumpsters throughout the borough. He’s _their_ hero, even if he only stops petty crime for weeks at a time. In some respects, they’re even more protective of him and than he is of them.

 

The soulmate drama settles down after a few months and he decides even considering Spider Man as a candidate is stupid and pointless. His soulmate probably does parkour or some BS.

 

Besides, Captain America’s soulmate is the Winter Soldier; people like him weren’t made to love superheroes.

 

But, he’s sixteen and full of hope every time he feels even the slightest pain, whether it’s from his soulmate or his own mid-puberty awkwardness.

 

He’s sixteen and his life is two hemispheres - school and Spider Man, touching but never mixing.

 

Ned Leeds is sixteen and soulmates are the only thing that ever seems to matter, but he doubts he’ll ever find his if he stays hung up on the unobtainable.

 

…

 

He’s seventeen and has a dozen colleges and universities want him in their programs, but none of that matters when he sits next to Spider Man on the subway.

 

Spider Man’s mask is pulled up over his mouth, exposing his clenched teeth. He’s holding his arm close to his chest - the right one, the same one he had felt brake and hour and a half ago while in a senior physics lab and had been favoring ever since.

 

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice quivering. Spider Man looks so much smaller up close than he does in the videos, less like an Avenger and more like a kid. It’s unsettling to see him here on the train, as fragile as a butterfly.

 

Spider Man looks startled - the car is relatively full - only a feet seats are still empty and he hasn’t seen anyone move to talk to the avenger - but he just laughs it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be good as new in a few hours. A perk of the job and all. You know how it goes.”

 

“I know,” he says, not quite an echo but just as hollow.

 

Spider Man frowns, slight and easy to miss. He would have missed it, if his eyes didn’t keep dropping down to his soft, pink mouth.

 

The train slows down at a station. They’re a few stops from his, but Spider Man grabs his wrist - his left, he notes - and pulls him off the subway.

 

“Where are we going?” he asks. He doubts Spider Man will hurt him - key word: _doubts._

 

Spider Man just smiles and pulls his mask down with his free hand.

 

He takes a deep breath and follows the superhero up the stairs and into the sunlight. It’s late afternoon, and the shadows slowly stretch eastward.

 

“How did you break your arm?” he asks. At some point, Spider Man stopped holding onto his wrist, slid his hand down until their fingers were interlocked.

 

“One of my webs broke and I smacked into the side of a building. I tried to catch myself,” he laughs, sardonic.

 

There is something about it he loves, wants to hold close to his chest and protect. There’s a warmth there too, the kind from his soulmate. He squeezes Spider Man’s hand and it burns hotter.

 

They’ve been walking for a few minutes when he finally asks again, “Where are we going?”

 

“No idea,” Spider Man replies, voice slightly muffled by the mask.

 

He stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk. “What - what do you mean _‘no idea?’”_

 

“I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

 

He stops walking, but doesn’t let go. Spider Man stops a second later. Their arms are stretched between them.

 

Spider Man takes a step closer. “What’s wrong?” he asks, pulling his mask up to his forehead.

 

He’s young, so much younger than he had expected. He’s trying to get into college and here’s Spider Man, the same age and off _saving the fucking world._

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, nerves clear in his voice, like he’s scared he’s going to be yelled at. Seeing him now, he knows he could never yell at him.

 

“You could have just asked.”

 

“Oh.” He looks embarrassed, a blush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. “That’s... true.”

 

He hums.

 

Spider Man rocks back on his heels. “Is there anything else I can ask for?”

 

“It depends on what it is.”

 

Spider Man smiles, a bit cheeky. He takes another step forward, holds his other hand, leans forward a few inches. The fingers of the suit are rough against his skin, and sticky.

 

 _You’re beautiful,_ he thinks _,_ matching Spider Man’s grin. “Take it,” he says.

 

And then Spider Man is kissing him, dropping his hands to cradle his face in his palms like he’s something to be taken care of, something to be cherished. His lips are a bit chapped but they’re warm, _he’s_ warm.

 

Ned Leeds is seventeen years old, and being in Spider Man’s arms feels a bit like coming home.

 

…

 

He’s eighteen and college is big and different but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

 

Peter is going to the same university, taking classes at 8 AM to fit around Avengers' training. He’s not Queens’ friendly neighborhood Spider Man anymore; he’s passed that mantle onto a freshman named Miles.

 

And Peter’s gotten better about not breaking bones constantly. When he does, he always frowns, kisses him until he feels warm, feels loved, before going out and buying them pints of ice cream and renting a few movies.

 

Ned Leeds is eighteen years old, and every time he sees Peter Parker, he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading!!! comments/kudos/requests are appreciated!!  
> tumblr: c10p + claude-lit  
> twitter: cactixix  
> please [rt](https://twitter.com/cactixix/status/901940749360562176) or [rb](https://claude-lit.tumblr.com/post/164688900160/and-every-year-clxude-spider-man-homecoming) the link!


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